


Miniature Fights and Lego Plights

by sconelover



Series: Heroverse [5]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: According to Simon at least, Awful Puns, Dirty Jokes, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Happy Birthday Ashspren!, Lego sets, Legos, M/M, Roleplay, The abject pain and despair of stepping on a Lego, but not in a sexy way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28530180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: Set post-Holding Out For a Hero, things are going well for The Golden Blade and Vampire. That is, until Baz comes home holding a big yellow bag. Chaos ensues.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Heroverse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713400
Comments: 20
Kudos: 72





	Miniature Fights and Lego Plights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashspren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashspren/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASHSPREN!!!
> 
> About nine months ago, give or take, the idea for a snowbaz superhero AU was conceived (ha). Without you, I don't think I would have gotten much further than that. Your cheerleading, late nights spent talking when we were supposed to be in class or work, endless brainstorming, and of course, amazing friendship truly made HFH what it is today — and by proxy, who I am today, as a person and I writer. Thank you for sticking with me through it all. 
> 
> I wrote this fic for you mostly because I thought you'd get a kick out of it, but also because it has Legos and you do robotics and those are somehow related, right?
> 
> Happy birthday. I love you!!! ❤️

**Simon**

I look up when I hear the front door slam shut. It’s Baz, of course. He’s dripping water onto our doormat, a puddle quickly forming in the entryway. He scowls and shakes his umbrella into the hallway, then hangs it up.

Looped around one of his arms is a gigantic bright yellow bag. It seems heavy—he drops it, and it hits with a hard  _ thump _ on the floor, along with a weird rattle.

“What’s that?” I ask from the sofa.

“Surprise,” Baz says. He peels off his sodden coat, revealing a soft cream jumper and rust-coloured scarf underneath. (He’s slowly but surely been branching out from wearing  _ only _ black.) He unwinds his scarf and hangs it up with his coat, then picks up the bag again and smiles at me.

It’s been coming down in buckets all day. Rain is still lashing against our windows, and it seems like it’ll turn into a thunderstorm tonight. And Baz looks like autumn incarnate—like everything good about the season wrapped up in well-fitted jeans.

“For me?”

Baz slides in next to me, immediately pulling a blanket over himself. He reaches for the pumpkin muffin I’ve left for him on the coffee table. “Just for you.”

Except he doesn’t say it in a sweet way, not exactly… his voice is tinged with mischief. Almost malice. Like he might have said to me a year ago, if I’d asked Vampire why he was stirring up trouble.  _ Just for you, Blade. _

I stare at the bag warily. “Well now you’ve made me a bit scared to open it.”

He nuzzles into my shoulder. “Go on,” he goads. “You’ll like it.”

“That doesn’t inspire confidence.”

He leans forward and hoists the bag onto the table, then pulls the ribbon. “Really,” he says, but he’s laughing a bit now, unable to be sincere. “It’s a gift for you.”

“Fine,” I grumble, and I reach into the bag and pull out the box within, settling it on my lap.

Oh my fucking god.

It’s–

It’s–

Baz is cackling—I can feel him literally shaking with laughter against my side. I fucking hate him. I turn to him, and he eyes me with his most innocent expression, lips pressed together in a line. 

This is not happening. We are not doing this.

“Baz, please tell me this is a joke,” I start, and then pause to look back at the box in my lap and burst into laughter. “Fuck! You’re such a wanker.”

“You love it,” he says.

“I hate it,” I say, thrusting the box at him. “Please return it.”

“Absolutely not.” His expression is so gleeful that I almost smile before I remember how angry I am. He tries to kiss me, but I hold him at bay with one hand, squishing his cheek.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

“Believe it,” he says. He wriggles and kisses my palm instead. “We’re going to do it together.”

“Baz,” I complain.

“Simon,” he says. Smugly.

We stare at each other. I watch as his pupils dilate, grey giving way to black. I won’t break first, I won’t break first—

I do. I sigh, resigned, and consider the box in my lap.

It’s not a gift, it’s a fucking curse.

It’s a Golden Blade Lego set. 

“Do we have to?”

Baz looks perversely excited. He springs up from the sofa. “It’s raining. Do you have anything better to do?” He’s already walking to the stove. “I’ll make hot cocoa. Move the coffee table, will you?”

“I hate you,” I remind him. “A lot.”

“I love you too,” he says, muffled as he crouches down to search for the chocolate powder.

It’s _awful._ You’d think a Lego set of yourself would be cool, and it is—for about five seconds. (Which is the reason I took the deal with Lego in the first place.) And then it’s just weird to see yourself in tiny plastic form and think about kids playing with mini-you.

Really weird.

The front of the box features a stylised version of what the final Lego sculpture might look like. My Golden Car takes up about half of it, all tricked out with probably more features than it actually has. Plus it’s a convertible, here. There’s me in my suit, being literally launched out of the car, striking the typical superhero-being-launched-out-of-a-car pose. Penny’s there, too, in the passenger seat—she’s got a little computer.

Even in Lego form Baz looks ten times cooler than me. He’s standing imposingly on the very edge of the building I’m being launched at, his cape fluttering in the wind. (Because that’s a thing plastic can do.) More of a shadow than anything in this rendition.

“So what do you think?” Baz asks, returning with two steaming mugs.

“Do we really have to do this?”

He chuckles. “What if I ask nicely?”

I try not to pout as I stare at Lego-me. “Really nicely?”

I feel Baz’s hand wind into my hair, and then his lips are on my cheek. My jaw, trailing down my neck… I tip my head back. “Really nicely,” he murmurs. I give in and wrap an arm around his shoulders, and he pushes me down to nearly horizontal on the couch. “Is this  _ nice _ enough for you?”

I capture his lips with mine. “Not sure. I think I’m going to need a lot of persuading.”

Baz raises an eyebrow in that way of his that drives me mad. “I think that can be arranged.”

* * *

About twenty minutes of “persuading” later, give or take, our hot chocolates are cold and the Lego set is somewhere on the floor, along with half of our clothes. Baz sits up, hair a wreck, and says, “Well, that got a bit derailed.”

“I liked it much better than the Legos,” I respond.

“You won’t know until you try it,” he says airly, and gets up to reheat the cocoa. I drag the coffee table out of the way and settle heavily on the floor, resigned.

“It’ll be fun,” he says when he gets back. “Look, they’ve even got a tiny gold sword for you. And little flames for me.”

I pry open the top of the box. “Do you enjoy seeing yourself in miniature?”

Baz smooths out the instruction booklet and starts sorting the pieces as I dump them on the floor. “Seeing as I’m far more narcissistic than you, yes. Absolutely. I delight in it.”

“You’re taking the piss,” I mutter.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning. He’s making a pile of all my car parts, golden plates and axles and white wheels. “But what does it say that one of the horniest moments of my life was last Halloween when you dressed up as— oh, that’s right,  _ me.” _

I sputter a laugh. Almost a year ago, now—the first (well, second) time we kissed. “Is that why you kissed me that night?”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Obviously. No other reason.” 

* * *

**Baz**

Simon’s awful at this. 

For someone so dexterous with a sword and in the kitchen, he keeps fumbling the small pieces and dropping them. Or losing count. 

He pulls out the Lego manual and I watch his brow crinkle adorably, as if he were staring at a particularly perplexing math problem. His eyes rake over the neat piles we’ve made. “What now?”

It’s work not to roll my eyes again. “Have you ever done a Lego set, Simon?”

“I did the Lego Batman one with Penny… but she did most of it. I just sat there and ate her biscuits.”

“Well,” I say slowly, as if explaining something to a child, “I’d say we start at, you know, the beginning of the book.”

Simon snorts. “So clever. What would I do without you.” He peers at the booklet. “I can’t even read this.”

“Use your super-eyesight,” I deadpan.

“Fuck off,” Simon laughs, and retreats into his room. (“His” is a loose term. We sleep in my bed every night.) (It’s more comfortable.)

What he does is even better than super-eyesight (in my opinion, at least). He returns wearing his glasses—square and too big for his face. A stray curl flops over the top of them, and he brushes it out of the way.

He sits back down across from me, blinking at me from behind his lenses, and a creeping, immeasurable fondness comes over me. I take a sip of hot chocolate to cover what I’m sure is a blush.

Simon picks up the booklet again and lays it on the ground between us. “Much better. Okay, so it wants us to start with eight of those ones…” He picks up a dark grey 2x4, still frowning, then puts it down. “No, wait.” He reaches for the grey 2x6 pile instead.

“It’s neither of those,” I huff. I poke his cheek in with a 2x8. 

“Ow.”

“It’s this one.”

“Didn’t have to  _ poke _ me with it—”

“It’s your fault for wearing your glasses, they make your cheeks look all squishy. Wait, don’t take them off—”

He laughs. “I actually  _ do _ need them.” He tries to give me a stern glare over the lenses, but he just looks ridiculous. “Behave yourself.”

Together we start piecing together the tall skyscraper that forms the backdrop of what is, apparently, a fight scene. (Despite the fact that we’re a team now—have been for almost a year.) (I think the nemeses thing just sells better.)

“Music?” I ask.

Simon stands, stretches in that obscene manner he always does (long, showy neck tilting back, lower abs on full display, biceps flexing behind him), and walks to the kitchen. He cues up his terrible-but-I-love-it-because-nostalgia 70s and 80s playlist. “Dinner?” he asks hopefully.

“Not until we’re done.”

“It’s already quarter to six,” he complains.

“That’s not anywhere near dinnertime,” I snap. “Now get your arse back here and help me.”

He settles himself down and looks at me fondly, like he’s trying not to smile. “It’s rather uncreative, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

He points at the completed skyscraper. “Generic… grey. They could’ve done Town Hall or something. Town Hall  _ exploding.” _

“But skyscrapers are tall and dramatic,” I say. “And broody.”

“Now you’re just describing yourself.”

We start in on the car next. “The easy part is over,” I say.

Simon looks horrified. “That was the easy part?”

I click together the base of the car, checking the manual for the next step. “Do you see the part that goes over the wheels?”

“The what?”

“The little cap for the wheels.”

“The wheels have a hat?”

“Simon, Christ.” I jab a finger at the diagram. “That thing.”

“Oh.” His tongue pokes out as he half-heartedly searches the ground for it. “No.”

“You didn’t even try.” I roll down onto my elbows and comb through the different piles until I find four of the right pieces. “Wheels?” I ask.

“Erm—” Simon looks around wildly. “I swear, I just saw them.”

“They’re white.”

He lifts the rug, checks the corners, then crouches to check under the sofa. “Fuck.”

I close my eyes in exasperation. “Don’t tell me they rolled under.”

He’s already fishing with one arm, voice strained. “Um, no?”

I push him out of the way. “Let me do it.”

“Why?” He sounds hurt.

“Longer arms.” I grope around until my fingers close around two of the wheels. “Got it.”

But I find I can’t get up, because something warm and very heavy has settled itself (or rather, himself) right on top of me. I groan, flopping back face-down into the rug like a pancake. 

“Simon.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the back of my neck, caging me in with his arms.  _ Rich Girl  _ is playing in the background. I’d be feeling all kinds of soft if I wasn’t being squashed to death by my lovable moron of a boyfriend. (I’m still feeling all kinds of soft.)

“Let me up,” I mumble into the carpet.

Simon’s kissing a line down my back. “But I like it here.”

“I like it when I’m not being suffocated by a rug.”

He hugs around my middle, and I take the opportunity to push off with all my strength and roll us over. Simon’s on his back like he’s my turtle shell, still clutching my waist, and laughing his head off. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

I flail, and try to recover at least a tiny bit of my dignity. But he doesn’t let go, so I eventually just relax into (onto?) his weird embrace. “I’m a fucking superhero, in case you forgot.” I try to say it haughtily, but it’s probably more whiny than anything.

Simon cackles and rolls us to the side. His leg swings up to cover mine. “So am I.”

“Yeah, well—” I push off again, twisting in his arms, and start clambering to my feet.

He stands, too, making us both stumble… and step directly on the pile of Legos. Barefoot.

“FUCK!”

“OW!”

“Fucking–”

“Christ on a fucking bicycle—”

“Mother _ fucking _ shit—”

“Fuck!”

“....Ow.”

“Fuck.”

Whatever expression of abject pain and despair I have on my face is mirrored perfectly on Simon’s. He looks like he might die. He’s leapt a safe distance away from the Legos and is hopping up and down, clutching his foot.

I let out a sort of whimper and collapse onto the couch. “What the  _ fuck.” _

“Why does this hurt so much,” he whispers.

I can’t breathe, it hurts so bad. Even my face hurts from how much I’ve twisted it as I caress my poor foot. “Just… a fact of life,” I say.

“I’ve literally been stabbed before,” Simon says. “I’ve broken  _ seventeen _ bones.”

We stare at each other with identical expressions of Lego-betrayal. “This is worse, isn’t it,” I whisper.

He nods, tearfully.

* * *

**Simon**

Baz has, impossibly, settled on the floor again. I’m still standing where it’s safe. I’ve put on fuzzy slippers.

“You don’t seriously still want to do this,” I say. “Not after what those Legos did to us.”

Baz grimaces. “It’s an unfortunate truth you just have to accept when Lego-building.”

“Could’ve warned me,” I grumble. I grab more pumpkin muffins from the kitchen, then gingerly sit down across from him, double-checking for stray Legos. 

He’s working on attaching the wheels to the car with long, nimble fingers. I stare for way too long.

“Hand me an axle,” he says absently.

“A what?”

“The little golden stick, Snow.”

“Hey,” I say, “I don’t appreciate you calling it little.”

Baz snorts. He looks up and smirks at me. “The adequately-sized golden stick, Snow. Happy?” He’s trying not to laugh. I chuck the tiny golden stick at his head.

Baz is kind of delighting in building the car, so I leave him to it while I try to assemble a few of the other smaller buildings in the background. “Why is this so hard?” I grumble.

“They’re rectangles,” he drawls, not even looking up from where he’s building the windshield. “How hard can it be?”

I toss my half-building on the rug, and it bounces to a stop in front of Baz. He looks up, amused. “I’m making dinner,” I say.

It’s Friday, so dinner just involves reheating pies from Friday Pie Day, but I start the oven up anyway. (We should get an AGA—I turn the oven on so often that it would be worth it.) I dawdle in the kitchen, then take pity on Baz and go back to sit while it heats up.

“Pass me you,” he says.

I stare at him. “What?”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “You. Little Goldy. Tiny Simon. Mini Blade—”

I find miniature-me, pausing to give it a scornful look, before passing it to Baz. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what again?” He nestles Lego Blade in the driver’s seat of the finished car. 

“Being mean to my dick!”

Baz laughs so hard he nearly falls over. 

* * *

**Baz**

I don’t know what Simon’s problem is, really.

The Lego version of the Golden Blade looks fine. Good, even. He’s wearing the suit—my redesign, thank fuck—and his grin is appropriately roguish. His mask is in the form of a detachable helmet. I pry it off to see that they even got his freckles right.

“Is there hair?” I ask.

“Legos don’t have hair,” Simon says. I wave the bald Golden Blade at him, and he bristles away. “Don’t point that at me.”

“He’s cute,” I insist. “Looks just like you.”

“Do  _ not _ say that.”

“And they got your abs on there.” I give the little Blade a kiss, just for effect.

Simon’s face twists up. “Ew.”

“What, I can’t kiss my boyfriend?” I ask innocently.

“That  _ thing  _ isn’t your boyfriend,” he scowls indignantly, “I am!”

He passes me the miniature curly hairpiece anyway, and I click it on. “Let’s see mine, then.”

Simon stares at the Lego Vampire in his hand for a moment. He pops the mask off with his finger. “They did get your evil e eyebrows,” he admits.

I pluck it from his palm. “And the hair. I approve.” 

**Simon**

I want to chuck Lego Golden Blade out the window.

Lego Vampire, on the other hand…

I think I might attach him to my keychain.

* * *

**Baz**

I stick the cape on Lego-me and place myself on the edge of the tall building. “Come and get me Blade, if you dare,” I say in my best Vampire voice.

Simon sends me a death glare. “We are not doing this.”

The scene is almost done; just missing Penny. I place her in the passenger seat with her computer, then set the car down. The whole thing looks epic, like a freeze-frame of one of our numerous fights. 

“Too scared?” I taunt.

“We’re not playing make-believe with Lego versions of ourselves,” he growls.

“We play make-believe in  _ actual costumes _ every other weekend,” I point out. “I think we’re past the point of being embarrassed about it.”

Simon mumbles something.

“What’s that?”

“It’s different,” he says. He looks up, frowning at me. “As in, we’re actually defending the city… and stuff.”

“Ever so eloquent.” I make the little Vampire fly around in a circle. Simon finally concedes and wheels the car towards the building. He half-grins. If he starts making  _ vroom-vroom  _ sounds, I might actually melt into a puddle. 

“This is dumb,” he says, but then makes Blade stand on the hood of the car. “What evil are you up to this time?” he asks, flatly.

I laugh. “Nothing at all, Goldy.” 

Mini-Blade climbs up the side of the building. Simon finds the tiny sword and clicks it into his claw-hand. “Liar,” he says.

I put on my most seductive voice, just to see if I can get under his collar a bit. (Just to see how far he’ll let me take this ridiculous exercise.) “Come find out for yourself, Blade.”

Mini-Blade faces off with Mini-Vampire on the rooftop. I make my Lego float, because I can. They’re face to face… and so are we. I look up and right into Simon’s eyes, closer than I’d expected. They’re an especially stormy blue today, with the weather. 

“Are you flirting with me, Vamp?” he asks.

“Who, me? Never.”

A dimple appears in Simon’s cheek. “Then what could you be plotting?”

“You’ll have to find out yourself.” I tone up the Vampire voice. “So? Aren’t you going to charge at me with your… long, powerful swor—”

Simon tackles me.

Literally full-on tackles me, tumbling us both across the carpet and halfway to the kitchen. He’s kissing me before I see it coming, pushing me into the floor. He kisses me so hard, I see stars. 

“So hot,” he says.

I pull back, reluctantly. “What, me making god-awful jokes about your… golden rod of pleasu—”

“Baz. No.”

I can’t stop smiling at him. He kisses me again, pressing my head back against the carpet. “The amazingly competent way I put together Legos, then?” 

We roll around a bit. He won’t let go; he won’t stop kissing me. (Not that I mind at all.) 

“Maybe.”

“I think it’s the roleplay thing,” I say.

Simon groans, then nods fretfully. “Yeah,” he says, resigned. “It’s definitely the roleplay thing.”


End file.
